Long after the pasta dishes are returned and the media trucks leave, long after the memorial service or vigil, a strange quiet settles in. The world moves on. But we don’t. Not really. Not in the same way.
And so, in the silence of the night, when the world sleeps, we lie awake.
It’s in those hours—midnight, 2 a.m. —that the haunting questions return. Not the kind people ask aloud. These are private questions. Nagging ones. The kind that don’t have answers.
We wonder what our loved one’s final thoughts were.
Were they afraid? Did they suffer?
Did they know what was coming—or did mercy somehow sheild them?
Did they feel alone? Think about their family?
We lie in the dark and bargain with the universe. Please let them have passed quickly. Please let them have felt nothing.
Some of us reach for the spiritual. We search for signs. A flickering light. A dream. Their familiar scent.
Are you there? Are you trying to reach me?
We hope the connection between worlds isn’t entirely severed—that love somehow remains threaded through the veil.
But it’s not just the metaphysical that keeps us awake. It’s the real-world chaos too.
Were all the perpetrators caught? Are we safe?
Can I face the courtroom again tomorrow?
What if I forget to breathe on the witness stand?
What if I fall apart?
Even small decisions loom large in the stillness.
Their coat still hangs in the hall. Is it clutter or an airloom?
Their favorite mug still waits in the cabinet.
How do I part with it? Should I?
Would getting rid of these things mean I’m betraying their memory? Or is it the logical thing to do?
We think, too, about the people who used to be part of our lives. The friends who now avoid us. The neighbors who cross the street. We wonder why grief makes us untouchable. Why our reality seems to scare them more than comfort us.
And then there is the deep, cold isolation of it all.
It feels like we’re the only ones awake in the world.
As if grief put us in a different time zone.
As if we’ve been exiled to a distant island with no map, no bridge, and very few visitors.
We’re not asking anyone to fix it.
We just don’t want to feel invisible at 2 a.m.
If you are reading this and know what I’m talking about, you’re not alone.
If you don’t know this experience, count yourself lucky—but please, be gentle with those who do.
So here’s what you can do:
If someone in your life has survived a homicide loss, don’t vanish.
Send a note. Or a text. Say their loved one’s name. Let them talk—or sit silently beside them.
Don’t ask for updates or explanations. Just show up.
Because what keeps us awake at night isn’t just grief.
It’s the fear that no one remembers.
That no one sees us.
That we are left to carry this alone.
Your presence—quiet, steady, and sincere—might just be the thing that helps us make it through the night.
